Tess and Mr Grey, Sir
by Munson Walker
Summary: Before Christian Grey met the love of his life, Ana, he frequented a club in Seattle for training-to learn and practice what he does. A brief encounter with Tess, a stunning African-American woman, left him fixated on her. She was ... different; he was learning. Trying to break free of the role he had played so many years.
1. Chapter 1 Training Session

**Tesslyn and Mr. Grey, Sir**

 _Yes, before Christian Grey met the love of his life, Ana, he frequented a BDSM club in Seattle for training-to learn and practice what he does. This is a fictitious telling, based on a fictitious character in the very real Fifty Shades trilogy book series written by acclaimed author E. L. James; thus the inspiration for this scenario. I give my take, in narrative and poem, on what he could have experienced. This is "fan fiction", not used for profit and infringement of copyright is not and was not intended. Enjoy!_

 _Munson Walker_

 **Mr. Grey, Sir**

He has those steely, bright gray eyes; dark copper-tinted hair, lengthy on top cut close to the sides and back. He's tall to my 5' frame, about a foot more it appears. A lean physique, I'm guessing he is in good shape, probably a health fanatic. He looks fresh and so clean, clean in his deep charcoal suit, white shirt and light gray tie with tiny patterned octagons. _Why he chose me to be his Submissive in training is beyond me. I mean, why is he here?_ Most of the men who come here are like him, well-to-do, high-powered business types; but, his wealth is obscene. He could have his own dungeon in his home.

According to his profile, he has no preference for Black girls. Actually, he favors brunettes, so why me?. Not to mention his proclivity for spanking and using the belts, whips, canes and other corporal implements. Guys like him usually get off on the pinking and redness of the skin during play. I would be frustrating for him. Not the right skin tone. And, I'd need after care the next day, when the evidence would be visible and painful. If he wanted a Black girl, he should have requested a red bone…Monica is fair skinned. Plus, I'm a Domme, now. Clearly stated in my file and no mistaking. _What kind of game is he up to?_

He has a hard limit about being touched; a very defined parameter. I'd written about it, haphephobia, in a section of my Master's thesis, "Adaptive Behaviors: Compensating Mechanisms for Coping with Irrational Fears." The Institutional Review Board was really hung up on my definition of irrational. One person's irrational is quite rational for another. I think I can navigate his parameter; it's not like a boot or foot fetish. He has a real psychological problem.

He's been here on four other occasions; it takes a trained eye (the girls do not share about client sessions), but I surmise he has sociopathic leanings, is arrogantly domineering and is probably an overbearing narcissist. I don't want to cause a meltdown. People like us come here to learn, to live out our fantasies, find release. Be our true selves. It can be our therapy. This is our no-judgment zone.

I passed him when he arrived this evening and stared up into his eyes like we were having a challenge of wills. No Submissive would do that. I'll have to tread very carefully with him. His type doesn't give up control and I must restrain my urges, somewhat. _I don't see this working_.

 **Tess (Tesslyn)**

 _Good evening, Mr. Grey, sir. My name is Tess;_

 _been here before but not introduced, yet._

 _I take it, sir, you like what you see._

 _Shall you watch or play? We aim to please._

You indicate without any compunction

A private room with no interruption.

You had your choice of blond or red head,

Caucasian, Asian but chose me instead.

( _See, I happen to know he likes brunettes._

 _I need him to tell me why he digress._ )

So, what I wondered, when you pushed up on me,

obviously intrigued and curiosity longing.

You've had four brunettes, your preferential inclination.

Yet, you chose something different; just my observation.

I am not a submissive, you're already aware.

We both like control and we both love a dare.

We push to the limits; take charge of every scene.

Both dominant personalities and observantly keen.

I don't do pain, a definite hard limit.

You crave to give pain, but can you withstand it?

So, clearly it seems we're at an impasse.

 _Undress. Now. Let me see that ass._

He's beautiful and golden. His body is slick!

And, he's got the most perfect 10 inch dick.

As thick as my arm and just as long,

Handsome and endowed; oh, this is just wrong

On so many levels and galactic planes.

He's the universal package, it's just insane.

A flawless male specimen to do as I please.

He's thinking, _what's next._ I can sense the intrigue.

Reading his face, I anticipate his question.

 _I usually don't fuck, but will make an exception._

 _Sit. In the chair. Hands at your side._

 _Rope or tape? Tell me. You decide._

 _Don't move or flinch, or the bindings will choke_

 _and leave rope burns on your throat._

 _Relax and breathe; I'll blow you now._

 _You will not come or make a sound._

I try to take him between my lips.

But he's way too large, so I work the tip.

Use my hands for extra friction;

he's very close, so I give him permission.

No, and I don't swallow; so I spit it out

all over his chest and on his mouth.

I stand; slowly tease and undress.

His eyes are searing, his emotion's-a mess.

I straddle his lap and demand a kiss.

I taste the cum still on his lips.

I cut the rope around his neck

and demand that he tease and suck my breasts.

I'm in control, but he's a Dom and a man

and must always think he has the upper hand.

I grab a condom, ribbed, extra-large.

I'm willing him now to fuckin' take charge.

I'm hot and ready, soaking wet;

I ride his cock; he's a spastic wreck.

I slap his face. Once. Twice.

 _Don't move an inch…I'm telling you nice._

I move faster, riding his dick.

 _Mr. Grey, sir, you may come, again. Quick._

Just like that, I release his hands

he grabs my hips and up he stands.

Then down we go, prone on the bed

around his body I wrap my legs.

I top from the bottom, every demand he exploits.

I'm very obedient and deftly adroit.

Now, he pushes his cock in deep and hard.

The room is spinning and my vision goes dark.

 _Stop_ I command. _Stand over there._

 _You must be punished. Just watch and stare._

I turn and face him, with legs open wide.

I finger my clit and rub my thighs.

Picking up the pace, rubbing hard and deep,

I draw in a breath and cannot speak.

Just as I'm there, almost over the top,

I'm snapped to reality when he orders me, _stop!_

In one fluid move, three steps to the bed,

he flips me over, grabs my hips, fucks me instead.

One hand around my neck, wrapped real tight.

My adrenaline accelerates; it's extreme delight.

Another hand around my belly, I'm aerial bound.

Into me relentlessly, he grinds and pounds.

He's fast, he's slow, then a long hard tease.

He comes. I come and gasp my release.

As our breathing slows to an even pace,

he pulls me gently around my waist

and lays me across his sweaty lap

and gives my ass 20 smacks.

To Mr. Grey, I finally acquiesce,

as my climaxes are intense and limitless.

 **Mr. Grey**

I'd never been with an African –American woman, but I chose her because of her skills, a Domme, who doesn't humiliate and debase her Submissives. She's a switch and can top from the bottom, when required. If I like her, she can fulfill my every warped need. She has a lot of hard limits, though. She doesn't do pain. No French kissing; if I can't tongue her mouth, I'll tongue her everywhere else, if she allows me. Fuck, she doesn't swallow! But, the owner highly recommended her. Her psychology background would definitely be useful. If anyone could truly understand me and accept me as I am—all 50 shades of fucked up—it would be her. Sometimes, we choose this lifestyle; sometimes it chooses us. So, I am curious. Two very controlling, dominant people. _How would that work?_

She's dark. Her skin is shimmery and beautiful like Tahitian Black Pearls. Toned, slender muscles of someone who works out. But, her small frame makes her look fragile and very much underage. It's a momentary discomfort. Her hair is in a short cut; it could be a problem for me or it could just be … different. I'm stepping outside my comfort level.

She's wearing a red lacey G-string and corset ensemble, breast exposed with red coverings hiding her nipples and aureoles, strappy sandals with enough heel to add five inches to her height and dark stocking. No garters. She always dresses immaculately sexy in such delicate, expensive finery. I've bought enough lingerie to know.

I notice she's holding a walking cane; a strange prop, even for me to envision in role play. She's graceful, working the room, stopping for brief conversation, refusing every Dom who engages her, not paying much attention to the session playing out in the center floor. (A Dom is slowly fucking the mouth of a gorgeous, kneeling brunette. My dick throbs and I regroup.) She's walking towards me, closer, closer. I finish my Perrier and deposit my glass on the bar. I look down on the top of her head, lean in and caress her arm. "Good evening, Mr. Grey, sir."

 _Ah, she speaks._

The private room is intimately lit and smells of clean, potent oxygen. There are displays of condoms, the usual sex toys and numerous accoutrements. Various surfaces for fucking, or whatever the hell I choose to do with her, accentuate the room. When she orders me to undress, I start for the changing room, but her eyes dart to my feet and back up to my face, letting me know I am to strip bare right where I stand. I obey.

When she ties my hands to the sides of the high-backed chair, she uses thin satin rope. I'm amused. The knots are loose and I could probably free myself with one sharp tug. _But, what the fuck!_ She slips a rope around my neck, forcing my head to the back of the chair and attaches the two ends of the neck rope to the rope from my wrists. I can't move my arms; I'll surely strangle myself.

I'm aroused and my dick is at attention when she tries to take me in her mouth. It's too much, so she focuses on the tip and her hands make up for what's lacking—stroking, squeezing, fondling. It's like three women down there. It's Submission 101, tease and denial, and class is in full session. I maintain control and I ejaculate only when she tells me to. She takes every drop then, SURPRISE, she spits out my cum all over me. It is an emotional rush that shoots straight from my groin, up through my torso, into my head and out my eyes. The sight of my cum spurting out of her small, puckered mouth, streaming airborne and still warm when it splashes on my body electrifies me. When she kisses my lips, I am so overwhelmed I'm unable to respond. Hell, I didn't realize she had removed the rope formerly restraining my neck. Then I see the cane on the floor, the handle removed, revealing it is a knife. ( _How? When did she do that?_ )

She's standing straddled over me and her breasts are mouth level, so I give them the attention they deserve. I pray she unties my wrists, soon. I need to touch her. But, I am hard again from her grinding and squirming in my lap, so she decides to ride my dick and can't get the condom on fast enough. Her cunt is like a rain forest and as tight as a virgin's. _Mental note; she's very small inside._ She's holding my arms, bucking up and down, initially very fast, then slowly and deliberately. Finally, just like that, her shoulders drop down and my hands are free, she tosses the ropes aside.

Now, it's my turn. _I am taking control; or is she relinquishing?_ Roles are blurred. I lift her by the hips as I rise from the chair and fall over her onto the bed. I grab her legs and push them up into the air. They barely reach my shoulders, so she wraps them around my torso. She is completely waxed and, with her tiny physique, she has a prepubescent look. It's jarring, but _she_ _ **is**_ _a grown ass woman_. For almost an hour she takes everything I give her like a well-trained Submissive. I refresh the condom and slide my cock back into her, finishing what she started. My pink dick, in stark contrast to her black pearl skin, seeing it disappear deep, deep into her and out again, is sensory overload.

I move her hand resting across her face, releasing tense fingers from her mouth. _Eyes open_ , I order. I want to see her face, her always calm face. I want to fuck the calmness right off her face. But, she tells me to _stop_ and _stand over there_. Like, just go stand any damn where! I do as I'm told and just stand … over there.

Oh, and stare.

I stare, indeed, as she lay in front of me pleasuring herself ( _and me_ ). She moves her fingers around and around her beautiful clit; fingers go in and out of her pussy, fingers massage swollen nipples. It is one of the most erotic vision I have ever seen. I. Am. Mesmerized! She expertly plays her body like a musical instrument (and I am reminded of my fingers on my piano keys).

But, her climax should be mine. So, without thinking, I charge to her, flip her on her stomach, pull her ass into the air and I push my dick into her so fast and hard, I almost lose my hold on her hips. She doesn't move and takes all of me. No pushing into me; no matching my rhythm. She is such a contradiction, an enigma; it throws me off balance. I can't get a good read on her _. OK, Grey. Now, you're overthinking._ _Just go with it_ ; I convince myself.

She grabs her neck with her right hand. And, on cue, I follow her lead. As if given some unspoken instruction, I wrap my hand around her tiny neck, careful not to squeeze too tight, as her hand slips away. _Who's in control, am I or is she?_ I wrap my other arm around her underbelly, lifting her 100 pound frame up higher, off the bed, fucking her in the air. I feel her come. She forces out a breath, inhales quickly and then she stops.

Stops. Breathing.

Her pussy tightens, as if it could become any more constricting. I come so hard, I'm dizzy. Finally, a deep, low "uhmmmmm" is the only sound she makes; she's breathing. I lower her onto the bed, releasing both hands as she descends. Like a fallen leaf in the wind, her upper body trembles, fingers and toes gently flutter through a continuum of orgasmic aftershocks. I gently kiss her neck and back, gradually calming her; then I lay her across my lap and spank her seven, 15, 20 times. Her arousal arouses me and I fall back on the bed exhausted and sated, her convulsing body still lying over my lap.


	2. Chapter 2 The Conversation

**Tesslyn and Mr. Grey, Sir**

 _ **Chapter 2 The Conversation**_

The desire to spank her, I try to suppress.

It's a powerful need I honestly profess.

Her actions are subtle; she's all control.

Next time I'll flog her and use the blindfold.

She's hard to please and difficult to read,

every body movement designed to deceive.

She will succumb; and I will dominate,

then only on me will she fixate.

It has been several minutes.

Several minutes since I had the most dizzying climax with the most beautiful African-American woman I've ever laid eyes on. She is very petite. Five feet tall, and what, ninety-eight, maybe one-hundred pounds, if that much. Skin dark and shimmery like black pearls. Deep brown, extremely short, wavy hair.

But, it's not just her physical beauty – damn, I don't know. _Is it her aura? Her strength, composure, her predatory feminine allure?_

I rise up on my elbows and glance at her lying across my lap. Her body intermittently stills as she comes down from a series of spanking-induced orgasms. She took all twenty smacks. I wanted to stop sooner, not because I feared she couldn't take it, but because my hand was actually stinging. But, I kept going. Everything about her reaction, or lack thereof, told me, I THINK, that she enjoyed it, and I was giving her what she wanted.

She didn't use the safe word. _My brave, strong Submissive_. Brave. Strong. Submissive. _Could this be a contradiction in itself?_ Tess just proved it is not. So, I am convinced.

I am convinced, because she took my every stroke, spank, thrust, every breath. And, she will be, _is_ mine. _My Submissive._ Right then and there, I decide it is she that I want. To take me through this journey … my training, that is. It would be unusual for me to engage her otherwise, outside of the club. There is no hard rule; just an unspoken knowing that the club life and your private life are kept separate. That is, of course, unless you become a couple.

My attention is drawn back to her. I notice she is motionless. Arms hanging languidly towards the floor. I sit up and instinctively wrap my arms around her and pull her close to me, sitting her up on my lap. I lightly brush a hand through her hair. It is so soft, sweet smelling and damp from sweat, curls starting to unfurl and hang limp. Limp like her little body.

"OK?" I ask.

"Yep," she affirms. Quickly, self-assuredly, not looking at me. Sometimes aftercare is in order, but she appears unmarked from the spanking.

I place a finger under her chin and nudge her face up to mine. At first glance, I still see only the calm. But, as my eyes linger on her countenance, I see the raw passion. The sleepy eyelids, the right side of her lips conformed into a half-smile, the slightly leaned head, inviting curvature of the neck. It is the face of a woman so completely satisfied, so sexually fulfilled. It pleases me. She's not expressive and was difficult to read. I need her to be more responsive next time.

"Do you want to talk?" It is imperative for me to understand where her head is at.

"Sir, what do …?"

"This is not a scene, Tess," I cut her off. "We're just two people talking about what just transpired. "Call me Christian."

"Call me Tesslyn," she asserts, establishing us as equals. "Talking would be appropriate at this juncture. After all, it is our first session together. I'd like to know how I made you feel. If there is something you liked or did not like. Could I have done something differently? I never have sex with clients, but …"

Again, stopping her before she ticked off too many questions and started doubting herself, I answer honestly, "You were heaven. I have no other desires, at least not tonight." Then I remember. "The knowledge of the knife had a slightly chilling effect, but you helped me get over it rather quickly."

She giggles softly, cupping her hands over her mouth. "I'm sorry. Sometimes, I get caught up in play. Trust me; you are not the first to become rattled."

 _Not the first._ I do not like the sound of those words and force myself not to think about her with another man, or a woman, for that matter. The images playing out in my mind are unsettling. Another man licking and sucking her pussy. Playing with her breast, which just moments ago were responding to my mouth. Another man putting his dick in her, holding her down in positions and fucking her to the outer edges of passion. Her small body jerking uncontrollably as she has orgasm after orgasm. I close my eyes for a few seconds as if to erase the unwanted scenarios playing out in front of my eyes and strain to focus on the present.

I move my hand from her hair and caress her back. Her body is still warm. She is just a little ball of energy, emitting heat. Raw, female heat mixed with aromas of citrusy sweat, flowers and coconut oil. It is drawing me in. In, to her, once more. I can feel myself harden underneath her buttocks. I squirm gently to get relief from the pressure.

"Tesslyn, I'm curious." She stares at me sideways. "You are difficult." She frowns. I continue quickly. "You are difficult to read. I could not gauge how you felt during play. I felt lost at times. Like I was driving down an unfamiliar road without GPS."

"I know. I don't give much away. It's the Domme in me. The need to be in control. It is good we are talking. We never made that clear upfront, and I was fractionally concerned."

"No. That's how I wanted it. I wanted to experience the genuine you, without rules. While I thoroughly enjoyed it, moving forward, I need to be able to know where you are at all times during a scene. I need you to be responsive to me. My touch. Mouth. Words. When I breathe on you. When I look at you. I need you to show me how I make you feel. I need you to let go of that control and give me your total trust. Can you do that for me?"

"Sure. Whatever helps you, Christian." Her response is clinical, guarded; and I don't feel one hundred percent assured she is committed to this, our arrangement, as seriously as I am. _After all, It is her job to do what I want; to say what I want to hear._

"But, _you_ have to want it, too." I emphasize "you" because I need her to want to do it. Peel away the layers, drop the veil. And, when we are together, express all of herself to me without thought, doubt or hesitation. Complete trust. Unlike now.

There is silence.

She is thinking; and I am nervous.

Nervous, because I don't want it to end with just one session. I don't want to scare her off. I was on my best behavior, this encounter. I didn't want her to go all psychoanalytical on me. Not before I have her, all of her, in my red room. In my domain. There, she will succumb. She will become obedient, again. She will be responsive. She will do everything I demand of her. Just like Elena trained me. And she will enjoy it.

But with Elena, it was different. I was young, 15 years old. An angry, hot tempered, out of control teen with raging hormones. I didn't know what a sexual relationship was like. The emotions involved beyond the physical. The give and take. That balance of power. Dominant and Submissive. _Hell, does any teenager?_ With her I did find focus. I learned control of my physical body; my emotions and actions.

Tesslyn is on a level with Elena and I am asking her to trust me and be my Submissive. Lacking though I am as a Dom in the skills area, I want her to give over control to me. Thereby, becoming my Submissive, she actually will be teaching me. I am asking her to be a switch, at all times, when with me.

I realize she is shaking, almost unperceptively, and her skin is cool. I wrap my arms around her, swallowing up her body in my embrace. Her arm and head rest on my chest. _I am OK. Don't panic._ As long as it's not her hands.

"I want it. I want to do it, not just for you, but for me, as well." Her delayed response jolts me back to the question I'd proposed some moments ago.

With that affirmation, I can now see her cuffed to the cross. Arms outstretched and legs open wide and inviting. That half-smile is on the right side of her lips. _Baby, you are going to come so hard, it will wipe that little smirk right off your face. Forever!_

We talk some more, and a sense of awareness and familiarity settles within me. I feel like I've known her forever. It is odd, but we come from similar dissimilar backgrounds. _Similar dissimilar_. Her words not mine. It must be the psychologist coming to the forefront.

 **Tess**

Mr. Grey, Sir, I honestly speak.

We complement well for two control freaks.

Your fear of touch shows you're wounded deeply,

a physical trauma that's apparently deep seated.

Sociopathic tendencies and a need to inflict

pain on your women, in various ways you depict.

I've a need to know; was it pleasing to you?

I'm multi orgasmic; it's just what I do

"I want it. I want to do it, not just for you, but for me, as well." I can't believe I agreed to Mr. Grey's request. Well, Christian; he asked us to be on a first name basis. _What the fuck was I thinking?_ I mean, this was our first scene together. He wants me to be in the scene, but be myself…the real me. I don't really know him other than what's in his profile. And, trust me; you can't believe everything you read. I'm surprised he actually used his real name.

I had to think about it long and hard. I'd promised myself I would never reveal my emotions, so bare and raw, to a man ever again. They use it to manipulate and you get burned every time. They convince you that it's all about you, your pleasure, you have all the power and then they emotionally fuck you up. They take your vulnerability, the feelings and needs, and turn them on you. I just didn't want to be that exposed to anyone ever again. _I hate fucking passive aggressive men._

Now, here I am with this fine white boy and I am rattled to the core. He has me all off balance, agreeing to be transparent in feelings, thoughts, and actions. To be responsive to him. Trust him.

I find myself liking how that sounds despite it being so unlike how I choose to be. What I discover as I sit, held in his arms, talking mostly about our pasts, is that we have similar dissimilar backgrounds. Meaning the events in our lives though dissimilar—the effect of the outcomes are similar.

 _Before the age of five, he lived in abject poverty with his drug addicted mother who prostituted herself. Once a promising dancer, ballet, she got knocked up with Christian and was forced to move back home. After he was born, she fell on hard times, turning to prostitution and drugs. The crack whore, that's how he referred to her, was abused by her low-life pimp and almost every man she fucked. She died in front of him from a drug overdose. He was found days later in the cold Detroit apartment with no food, huddled up to her lifeless body. She was four months pregnant with a baby girl. He had not eaten in two days. I suspect the burn marks on his chest are from his negligent mother or some asshole in her life. He wouldn't talk about it. He was adopted by a well-to-do couple, the doctor who treated him in the hospital and her husband, an attorney. They eventually moved to Seattle and adopted two more children. He has a brother and a sister. He comes from a family of high achievers and wealth. All are successful, but he more so than any of them. He is the self-made billionaire and consummate philanthropist._

 _Raised in Chicago, I share that I come from a dysfunctional family. Drugs. Alcoholism. Domestic violence. You name it, we had it in our family. I stop short of telling him about my years of sexual abuse by nearly every male relative that lived under our roof. At 17 I emancipated myself, graduated high school and got enough scholarships for a full ride to college. I was accepted by all my three choices of universities and chose Vanderbilt in Nashville. It has one of the best graduate programs in psychology and human development. I think I chose to major in psychology because I was raised around broken people. There was that curiosity, that seeker of motives in me that wanted to know why people act the way they do in any given situation. I thought if I could understand the human condition and the brain's response to adapt and normalize that existence, then I felt I could understand my reality. Understand why everyone who came into my life disappointed me. Well, almost everyone. Clearly my choice of career wasn't all for altruistic reasons; I wanted to heal myself in the process._

I admit Christian caught my eye the first time he came to the club. He is truly breathtakingly handsome. Inside I was all breathless and panicky, like I was having a text book anxiety attack.

But, the smart, shrewd businessman is what I found attractive about him. If given the opportunity, I want to know what motivates him, where his passions lie? What makes him so driven with his various business pursuits? Hopefully, there will be opportunity to explore this.

For now, the situation at hand is to become his Submissive and finish out his training. "Why would you request, specifically, a Domme for your Submissive?" I ask him because it is a rather unusual way to go about one's beginner training.

"I didn't request a Domme. I requested you." When he speaks, I feel his breath in my hair. It is warm and soothing.

"But, you know I am a Domme? Yes?" I pry further to know why me. A Domme is not who I am. It is _what_ I am.

"I do." Sounds like a marriage vow. I'm waiting for more explanation, but nothing follows.

"And?" God, it's like pulling teeth with him.

"Look, Tesslyn, I've been here four times, and I know you are aware of that. The first time I saw you I was attracted to you."

"So, why didn't you come over and tell a girl, hello?"

"Old habits. Preferences."

"Habits? Preferences? What does that mean?"

He sighs, "I have, uuh had, a specific taste in women. They've all been Caucasian, brunettes, long haired."

"Jeez," I'm slightly miffed. "You think you could make me feel any more unlikable?"

"More unlikable." He arches an eyebrow. "Implying that you were already feeling unlikable to some degree."

"Stop trying to psy-cho," I'm emphasizing each syllable, but he flinches uncomfortably before I can finish. "Analyze me. Psychoanalyze me," I say quickly, in lieu of clarification.

"That's your area of expertise, Tesslyn. I chose you because I knew immediately that you could give me exactly what I need; what I want. Before then, I didn't know I wanted anything different, because I was used to what I was used to. My choices worked for me. I saw no need to digress.

"Then there was you. You're not even aware of the affect you have on men. And, I might add, quite a few women. For someone so tiny, you have a commanding presence. For someone whose demeanor is subtle and understated, you overpower with intellect, passion, charm, level headedness. You are such a contradiction. So guarded. So hard to read. I found myself drawn to you. Yes, I came here four times. Even though I wasn't with you…it was to see you. I was always thinking of you."

I was floored. Absolutely speechless. I didn't know what to make of this confession. I had to challenge him on his logic. "Are you sure it's not just a case of jungle fever?"

He seems pissed, but I don't give a shit. I need an honest answer. "I think what you said demeans what happened between us."

"What happened between us? Christian, you came in here for your training. You paid for it; I provided. When did it become something between us?" I raise my hands making air quotation marks, knowing at my core something special really did happen.

He appears crest fallen, but I do not back down. I repeat, "When? When did it become something between us?"

"The first time I saw you." His look is hot, intense. It has lit a flame within me, and I need to tamp it down.

"We've established that, Christian. The first time you saw me, yada, yada." I roll my eyes.

"The first time I saw you, at Vanderbilt." _Is this a joke?_ I straighten and look up at his face, but, he's not laughing.

"V, v, vanderbilt? When? Why?" I'm stuttering and hyperventilating. There is uneasiness in my voice.

"The Institutional Review Board. Your Master's Thesis," he starts hesitantly.

"What are you saying?" I'm in growing disbelief. "I don't remember seeing you on the Review Board."

"I wasn't. I was part of a group of potential donors. We were seated in the rear of the room. Also, I have a personal interest in the behavioral sciences."

I scan quickly through my mind's memory. Hell, I don't remember seeing the group in the back of the room, let alone Christian's face among them. I was focused on my review and had steeled my resolve to thoroughly answer every question they would present to me, leaving them with no room for counter arguments.

"The next time I saw you was at the BDSM Club Ménage, where you'd worked during your last two years at Vanderbilt. It was just before graduation, and I was pleased to learn that you had accepted a position at Seattle Children's Hospital. But, something happened and you never started. Instead you went into private practice and I lost contact. I figured you'd resurface at one of the clubs in Seattle, and I was right."

I am momentarily dumbfounded! "Please tell me you haven't been stalking me all this time?"

"No. I have people for that."

Suddenly, I am freezing and grab one of the plush towels to wrap around me. I don't know if I should be angry or flattered that Christian Grey and his paid stalkers had tracked me down so relentlessly. It sounds kind of creepy and a little bit unhealthy, as in, _is he mental?_ Perhaps he should be in counseling. I can certainly give him a referral.


	3. Chapter 3 Our Agreement

**Tesslyn and Mr. Grey, Sir**

 **Chapter 3 Our Arrangement**

 **Tess**

Just the notion of you

I am beyond subdued.

"Love me now; oh fuck, please.

Sate my desire, temper my need."

I'm yours to do

whatever you choose.

Weak, defenseless

aroused senseless.

Reached my peak

unable to speak.

I drink you in,

an intoxicating brew.

It's just the notion of you.

I am momentarily dumbfounded to learn that Christian's people began stalking me just after graduation. It just seems odd that he never came to Club Ménage or made any attempt to contact me himself. For someone who's self-assured in business matters, he seems very unsure when it comes to women, or is it just when it comes to me?

 _How much does he know about me, truthfully?_ I'm thinking not much beyond what I revealed to him. He gave no indication he knew why I never started my position at Seattle Children's Hospital.

Apparently, a Ménage member had broken one of the club's most sacrosanct rules. He, or she, had taken pictures of me and sent them anonymously to hospital human resources. The hospital never told me the real reason for withdrawing their offer, but a colleague, also a friend, was able to find out. He even saw the photos, which are now part of a permanent file of unviable job candidates.

According to him, the photos were fairly innocuous. I was covered up in all the places that counted. As he described it, my clothing was no more revealing than if I was wearing a sexy Halloween costume. Club Ménage was scrawled on the back of the photos; all ten of them. _Damn, how long was the little prick taking pictures?_

To some degree, I understood the hospital's position. I would have been working with children, very broken children; defeated and dispirited by life's circumstances. There were liability concerns as well as the imminent scandal and cover-up allegations, if they'd have brought me on staff. Everything had to be above board.

Actually, whoever sent the photos could have done more harm to me, if they had waited until I started working at Seattle Children's. But, then the hospital would have been dragged into the news and ripped apart, along with me and my reputation. They'd recover, but who's to say I would have? It never occurred to me to apply anywhere else. I just did not have the energy. Anyway, people know people; they talk to each other and travel in the same professional circles.

Ironically, that same friend, who found out about the photos, had strong connections to a medical group. It was an easy reference, and I went into private practice with Welles-Spriggs Clinical Psychologists Group. I'm surprised Christian wasn't able to find out that information; I only became a blip on his radar when I resurfaced at one of the local BDSM clubs in Seattle.

Christian's training is coming along better than I expected. While his introduction into the lifestyle as an adolescent teen by a family friend, Elena Lincoln, was as a Submissive, he is, by nature, a Dom. Personally, I know how difficult it must have been for him all those years, having to suppress his true nature.

He has asked me to train him exclusively, and I agree after we ultimately worked out a few sticking points. Going forward, our sessions will be at his place at Escala. I am curious to see if his training will maintain its momentum, once we transition to his personal play room.

On this evening, when he arrives at the club, I immediately sense he is upset. Tension is imprinted across his tight lips, and a furious anger punctuates his eyes. He forgoes his usual Perrier for scotch. Not one but two shots.

"Good evening, Mr. Grey, Sir," I greet him warmly, as I would any client. Nothing pretentious, as I am truly happy to see him.

He is silent. There is rage in his eyes. With his hand on my elbow, he guides me to one of the larger private play spaces. I am perturbed but not nervous.

He isn't his inviting, charming self. I've only seen him riled up when I touched his chest; once as a test and twice by accident. Neither time was pleasant. Presently, his facial expression is undeniable. _He is fucking pissed and he's going to take it out on me, unless I can redirect._

"Strip," he says gruffly, not even bothering to say my name.

"Christian, before we go into a scene, I need you to clue me in on what's going on with you right now. It is essential that your anger is properly redirected."

"Why, Ms. Tesslyn Winters," he's never used my full name to address me. "Afraid I'll get overzealous?" he spits out with a smirk.

"Afraid? no." I look defiantly into his bright, gray eyes. "Overzealous? yes."

And, I could just stand there and bask in the brightness of his eyes, but the heat and magnetism that normally draws me to him is lacking. _How can brightness be so tepid?_

"I am requesting that you redirect your anger or bring it down a notch or two. We cannot proceed with you at this level of intensity. Someone could get hurt." _And, that someone would definitely be me._ He would not mean to; but, caught up in the emotions and dynamics of a scene, _he would_ lose control.

Any smart Domme would talk him down off the precipice and to a place where he is calmer, yet, feels in control again. A safer place for him and me. He could physically harm me and the emotional harm to him would be his undoing. He might experience a full psychotic episode.

He rakes a hand through his hair, and for the first time, I notice it is unruly. His clothes are unkempt and his knuckles, red and scratched. "What in God's name happened to you?" I speak evenly. There is no alarm in my tone. One of us must remain level headed.

"I had a run in with that little fucker-of-a-friend of yours," he hisses. Tensing his shoulders and fisting his hands at his sides, he holds the anger at bay. It is all he can do to maintain a modicum of self-control.

 _Progress. That is good._

I must remain calm as well, if I am to help him traverse to a safe place. I tell him, "I know many people; but have few friends. Do you want to give me his name?" Christian glares at me; _do I see curiosity?_ "I know it's a he. You wouldn't beat the crap out of a woman. At least not with your fists." Ouch! That was a low blow, but he takes it.

"It's your friend, from the hospital."

"Geoffrey," I offer; and, now I _am_ worried.

Geoffrey Clarke and I have been good buds since my freshman year at Vanderbilt. Together we crammed late nights for finals, wrote papers for each other, hung out. Hell, we even slept together. Literally slept in the same bed a gazillion times with no sex, no kissing, no getting to first base. He's seen me naked … what, I can't even count. And once when I got food poisoning, he helped me sit on the toilet. What Geoffrey and I had, it was strictly platonic. So I cannot imagine what … unless, Christian found out about the photos!

The stealth photos taken of me at Club Ménage and sent to Seattle Children's Hospital to ruin my chances of getting a position there, were long buried in some file for unviable job candidates. _How would Christian even find out about them?_

Turning my attention back to Christian, I can hear his breathing normalize. It is a little more relaxed; less restrained. "I knew about the photos," the anguish in his eyes palpable. "I was going to make them disappear, but when the hospital buried them, I figured it was best. I didn't want to do anything to draw unwanted attention to the situation. Then I discovered that your damn friend kept several copies for himself."

I'm puzzled. "I wonder why he kept copies. What would he do with them? Oh shit. Could he be the one who took the photos and sent them to the hospital?" I hypothesize. "What could he gain by doing something so low down to me? I am supposedly his closest friend." That thought troubles me; but feels utterly illogical, as it lacks any sensible motive. What would Geoffrey stand to gain by ruining my reputation and preventing me from getting the position at Seattle Children's?

"Jack off!" Christian scowls.

"Yeah, that he is." I'm in total agreement.

"No, he jacks off to your pictures." It is almost too painful for Christian to get the words out.

And, it's too painful for me to hear. I sigh … now, I'm struggling with feelings; it is disconcerting. I know for Geoffrey, self-pleasuring is extremely intimate and personal. He does not possess exhibitionist tendencies, and in my professional opinion, he is asexual. How would one even catch him in the act?

"Geoffrey told me the pictures were innocent. He said I was clothed in what could have passed for an adult costume." Consternation covers my brow and I am thinking so hard my temples begin to pound. "I assumed it wasn't how I was dressed in the photos that spooked the hospital higher ups, but the idea that I worked at a BDSM club."

Stepping away from the door, Christian draws himself in closer to me. He embraces me, pinning my arms to my sides. He still smells of body wash and cologne from a late afternoon shower, I suppose; and sweat from the ass kicking he gave Geoffrey. "Tess, you are extremely gorgeous, a guy could get a hard on if you were wearing a muumuu and he was a eunuch."

I stifle a giggle. "A eunuch? Physically impossible."

"True," he softly kisses the top of my head, "but the sexual tension and urge would still be there, I presume."

 _Well, I presume, just like the sexual tensions and urges happening between us right now._ Christian's erection is hard and growing. It presses into my belly sending pulsations directly to my clit. We are just standing, breathing in sync. I squirm my right arm between us and grab the stiff bulge in his pants. I start rubbing his dick using long, slow strokes. Stroking in sync; breathing in sync. Stroking, teasing, squeezing. He moans to the rhythm of stroking, teasing, and squeezing.

If he ever releases me I could do more, but I am held in place by his muscular arms, unable to free myself. _Do I want to be free?_ For a few seconds, I admit I have fallen in love with this man; but I'll never let him know.

"The photos are not much different than what we've done at times; but looking at them …" His voice trails.

Photos, plural. I wonder how many did Geoffrey have in his possession. Were there only ten photos, like he told me?

"People outside our lifestyle would only see depravity; couldn't possibly understand. They would not see the beauty of your female form strapped in a sling. Your legs splayed. Your pink flesh peeking out between the small, dark lips of your sex. Waiting for me to use my hands to make you come."

I swallow. Hard. His words weaken my legs as he grips me tighter to steady me. I am suddenly no longer concerned about Geoffrey or the compromising photos.

Unable to think clearly, due to the distracting wetness between my legs, I shimmy my hips. _No relief._ I am hot and bothered and I need my Dom.

The diaphanous material of my panty does absolutely nothing to absorb the slick juices streaming from my opening. My clit is throbbing and I can feel it expanding, the nub sticking out and pressing against the thin crotch. My arousal is building and I want Christian's touch, down there and … everywhere. I need my Dom to spank me and fist fuck me until I come all over myself; screaming my own name, a warning to myself to hang on for dear life.

"Tess," he whispers ever so softly in my ear, while bending down and gently lifting me off my toes. "Strip, I'm not going to tell you again."

He releases me. I lower my eyes and take several steps away from him.

There is a half-smile on the right side of my lips.

 _My Dom is back!_

 **Mr. Grey, Sir**

Just the idea of you

and the freaky shit we do.

I can't explain,

am I sane, deranged?

Is it quirky desire

or a love pang?

Is it real,

our mutual appeal,

or just the idea of you?

I've completed five training sessions with Tesslyn and I'm progressing well. To some degree I've shared with her my desire to have her exclusively for my training. I want her to leave the club; but she would not agree to something that stringent.

We spent time in our last two trainings negotiating and renegotiating various aspects of our "Agreement." Refusing to sign a contract, we hashed out various aspects of our arrangement, just so we're clear on what the expectations are. Lastly, we reviewed our hard and soft limits; nothing had changed for either of us.

 _\- She is mine three weekends per month and one weekday each week._

 _-What she does when we are apart I will not be privy to._

 _-I will no longer go to the club on days when she is working; and if I patronize the club at any time, it will only be to watch._

 _-I will be given regular emails of her schedule._

 _-She will not allow another man, or woman, to touch her intimately or make her come by any means._

 _-Safe words TBD at each session._

 _-Socially, I will not engage her otherwise on dates, meeting my family, or in business meetings or social affairs._

 _-Her counseling practice is off limits. The one exception being if I am in crisis and my regular doctor is not available._

 _-Either one of us is free to pull out of the Agreement at any time, with one week's notice, to bring healthy closure._ This was added at her insistence.

I understand her position. She has a life, faithful clientele and has invested a significant amount of time into establishing herself at the club and with the psychologist group. Her counseling practice is exceptional, with no lack of referrals.

So there it is. Clean, simple and straight forward.

We trust each other explicitly.

Tonight is our final session together at the club. On Friday evening I expect her at Escala at seven, where she will receive a copy of our Agreement for her files.

The altercation with her friend from the hospital was inevitable, though unexpected when it happened. I knew he would screw up sooner or later. I've had him under surveillance since photos of Tess showed up at Seattle Children's Hospital.

One of my security people caught his ass masturbating to a photo of Tess in the locker room at his health club. When I got the call, I rushed to the hospital and confronted him outside before the start of his shift. Then I lost it. _Suddenly, I was that 14-year-old boy beating the crap out of the swim captain because he called me weird._ Hospital personnel intervened and I made him an offer he could not refuse. Tess probably will never see that friend again.

When my driver pulls up to the club, I rush out of the car and I'm inside having a couple scotches when Tess approaches.

I wanted my final training session at the club to be special. But, now I am raging with anger and on fire with passion. Not a good combination. All I want is her naked body on the table, on her knees, head down and ass in the air.

She is very good at convincing me to talk through my anger and will not commence with training until I am calmer. I love the way she is able to handle situations and think them through. She is so analytical; and in the end, she is nearly always right.

 _Why do people do what they do?_ I think that is the question gnawing on her brain regarding Geoffrey. She has a lot of unanswered questions about his motivation, but, apparently, doesn't belabor the issue.

As for me, I've heard enough about Geoffrey, as well. Tess and I are moving on. She is not letting that whole photo incident get to her. Life is good; it will be better with Tess and me. _Gosh, I'm sounding like we are a couple, already._

"Tess," I whisper my command softly in her ear. "Strip. I'm not going to tell you again."

Immediately she lowers her eyes and steps away. I got to know her well in the two months we have been in training together, and instinctively, I know she's wearing that half-smile on the right side of her lips. Right now, I don't like it.

Catching her off guard, I pull her toward me, while simultaneously dropping to my knees. I grab her panty by the waist band with both hands, and I pull with arms outstretched. The material rips at the seams and elastic breaks free, snapping the backs of my hands. I toss them to the floor.

Looking up, for the first time I notice her bodice has hooks instead of lacings. _Good._ I rip it open easily, metal hooks become bent and distressed, her small breasts jump out looking perky, bouncing gently, nipples already hard. I pull the bodice down her body and off. It joins the ripped panty in a crumpled, unrecognizable mess on the floor.

She balances herself with hands on my shoulders, while I remove her shoes and peel her stockings off slender legs. I kiss and lick her on each thigh, all the way up to the crevice between her pussy and thigh. She moans softly and grinds her hips into my face. Pheromones and the scent of her inebriate me; all I can manage to do is grab her ass, hold and breathe her into me.

"Lie down on the table, Tess, on your back." I remove my suit jacket and hang it on a nearby hook. Loosening my tie, I turn around; and I stand motionless, staring at her. It is my last time seeing her at the club, in my possession. I want to commit this image to memory. Let me never forget, but always … always remember my sweet Tesslyn. My Domme. My Submissive. My Submissive-in-training, my switch. Aaah … Tonight will be bittersweet.

She is lying there with desire in her eyes; her breast heaving with every intake of air, every deep breath, and I am pleased. "Legs open, arms overhead." She complies immediately.

The table is upholstered in a deep, rich brown leather. It has gold hoops all around to accommodate various heights and different manner of restraints … the ankles, calves, thighs, waist, chest, neck, head. I could restrain her entire body, if I chose to. But I never liked taking it that far; it borders on cruelty, in my opinion.

I cuff her ankles. Fit her with straps and secure her down at the waist. Collar and strap down her neck. Deciding not to cuff her wrists, I, instead, tie them together with rope, and secure the ropes to a hoop directly above her head. I want the first time I see her naked and spread eagle to be on the cross in my play room.

"You look mighty fine, Ms. Winters." I check each restraint, running my fingers underneath, gauging their snugness against her skin. "Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, Sir. Very."

"Good." I smile, feeling very mischievous. "Tonight you are not allowed to come, Tess. You should resist and hold back your climax. When I see you getting close, I will stop. Do you understand?"

Silence.

Her eyes are blinking frustration; she's thinking too hard. "Answer me," I demand.

"Sir, I understand." The response is meek and lacks the usual domineering tone she usually delivers. _Good, it's just as it should be._

I turn and retrieve my bag and remove several toys, vibrators, butt plug, nipple clamps vaginal clip-carefully unwrapping and placing them on the low table behind Tess's head. Because her neck is restrained, she is unable to look overhead.

"And then after I stop, I will start arousing you. All. Over. Again. And again. And again."

Tess is trying to shimmy her hips, as she is already so aroused and I haven't touched her. I'd convinced her to be more responsive and shared how important is for me to see and hear her reactions. She has grown very comfortable demonstrating to me that I please her. It appears I've finally broken down that emotional wall she built to hide whatever shit happened to her in the past.

She was damaged. I don't know how or by whom; but she is finally in a good place. Someday, I hope she will tell me what the hell was done to her! But, for now, I shake away those thoughts.

I lean in closely to her ear, running a hand with feather-like touches over her breasts. "Oh, Tess, there is one more thing. If you come, you will be punished."

And before she can reconcile the pleasurable touch of my hand and my proclamation of punishment, I grab a pair of nipple clamps with my unoccupied hand. Within seconds, I latch one onto each nipple.

 _Time to proceed._


End file.
